


Every Broken Thing

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, During Canon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-13
Updated: 2006-06-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: We lost so much - can't we just have this?





	1. Chapter 1: Blurry

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Fandom: Supernatural  
Title: Blurry  
Series: Every Broken Thing (1/7)  
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Oh gods, I just Wincested)  
Rating: Adult; strong explicit sexual content and incest.  
Word Count: 913  
AN: Not set during any time period. No spoilers. Pretty much PWP with a side of angst. Written for my very dear friend [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/)**mona1347** , who I must REALLY love to write this. What is this handbasket, and where are we going? *headdesk*  
Summary: _We lost so much…can’t we just…have this?_  
  
_Everything's so blurry  
And everyone's so fake  
And everybody's empty  
And everything is  
So messed up  
Pre-occupied without you  
I cannot live at all  
My whole world  
Surrounds you  
I stumble then I crawl  
You could be my someone  
You could be my scene  
You know that  
I'll protect you  
From all of the obscene  
I wonder what you're doing  
Imagine where you are  
There's oceans in between us  
But that's not very far  
\--“Blurry” by Puddles of Mudd_  
  
Dean would never have fucked Sam-- _never_ \--if Sam hadn’t come to him first. If Sam hadn’t asked—no, begged—first. Because although Dean’s quite aware his feelings for Sam go way past ‘kid brother’ and on into the realms of ‘special hell’, there are some lines a big brother doesn’t cross. Not ever.  
  
But if said kid brothers cross them _for_ you…  
  
Well. That’s different isn’t it?  
  
Sam’s almost sobbing as Dean fucks his fingers deeper, harder into him. He’s still tight, taut, arching into each thrust, head down. “Please, Dean… _Please_ …”  
  
“Shh.” Dean feathers his free hand over the bony spur of Sam’s flank, across the knobbled field of ribs, along the knife-edge of scapula and into the soft sweaty mop of his hair. Sam butts into the touch, catlike, eyes closed, gasping. “I know what you need, Sammy. I’ll take care of you.”  
  
Sam _writhes_ , trying to shove back onto Dean’s hand, but Dean flexes with him, denying him relief. “Dean… _Dean_ …please. I can’t… _ah!_ …I can’t… You…”  
  
“You can,” Dean says, gentle, as he strokes, deep and firm. Sam gasps and his back arches, throwing all the muscles into hard-edged prominence. Dean didn’t think it was possible to get harder—he’s teetering on the ragged edge himself—but he does, a dizzy pleasure-pressure that makes him rest his forehead against the warm sweaty skin of Sam’s neck and murmur, “Come on, baby.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, trembling.  
  
Dean swirls his tongue wetly up the back of Sam’s neck and over the sensitive curve of ear. Sam’s shaking gets worse and his hips falter in their desperate thrusts. The noise that tears out of him makes Dean grope for his own dick, squeezing tight to stave himself off for a few minutes longer. “Come on, Sammy; it’s okay. Let go.” He keeps stroking into the smooth heat of Sam, brushing lightly but firmly over the prostate, trying to force the issue.  
  
“No.” Sam’s whole body bucks helplessly to the rhythm Dean’s set, but he won’t give in, sweating, cursing, vibrating. “ _No._ Want… _fuck!_ …want you. Inside me.”  
  
“Sam—“  
  
“No!” Sam tightens hard around Dean’s fingers, tugging a groan from his older brother. “Please. In me.”  
  
“Sammy…” Softer this time, belying almost brutal push of his fingers.  
  
“Please.” Hardly a sound at all.  
  
He should be stronger; Dean knows it. But he isn’t. He can’t ever really deny Sammy anything, let alone this.  
  
Sammy’s groan, and the silken clutch of muscle is almost enough to undo Dean as he slides slow and sure into Sam. He puts his forehead between Sam’s shoulder blades, twines his fingers over and through Sam’s and pants, fighting for equilibrium, fighting not to spill inside Sam right then and there. Sam whimpers and twitches his hips and Dean hisses, “Wait. Wait…”  
  
Sam whimpers again. “I’m so close, Dean; I’m so _close_ …please… Now. _Now._ Nownownownow…” He flexes and moves, fucking himself on Dean, stubborn and willful even in this and Dean lets him, eyes closed and biting his lips until it bleeds in hot salty drops down Sam’s vertebra.   
  
“Dean… _Dean…_ ” Sam’s voice rises as he gets closer.  
  
“Shhh.” Dean slides back and fits his hands around Sam’s hips. (It shouldn’t feel like they belong there, but they do.) He takes the rhythm back as Sam loses it, hard grinds that rub his cock all along Sam’s insides. Sam dissolves into incoherent gasping, moaning cries, both hands fisted in the sheets.  
  
Dean could come from those noises alone; when Sam is this wild, this unrestrained, when he lets go; but he can’t tell if it’s the sound or the feel of him as he comes, pulsing, jerking, sucking Dean deeper until he can’t hang on any more and he’s spilling, spurting, falling _hard_ , everything whiting out until there’s only _Sam, Sam, Sam_.  
  
Sam’s arms give out. Dean’s got just enough strength and presence of mind to drag them sideways so they lie spooned and tangled. Sam makes a soft, stifled noise and shivers as Dean eases free, but otherwise, he lies boneless, malleable. Dean swipes his fingers across Sam’s belly, collecting his seed and bringing it to his mouth. It’s his one indulgence in oceans of recrimination and regret, the taste of Sam.  
  
He looks down and sees Sam’s eyes are open and he’s watching Dean lick his fingers. “I love it when you do that,” he murmurs sleepily.  
  
Dean feels his mouth quirk, but he doesn’t say anything, untangling himself from his brother and climbing off the bed gingerly. His legs feel rubbery and hot. “I’m going to shower,” he offers finally, careful not to look at Sam all sprawled naked and fucked out.   
  
He’s closing the bathroom door when Sam’s voice carries to him. “Dean.”  
  
Dean pauses, and finally raises his head. Sam’s looking over his shoulder, his eyes serious. “I wanted this. I…want it. I want you. I always did. It’s just…before Jess I was just some kid to you.”  
  
Dean laughs. “Yeah, Sammy; my kid _brother_.”  
  
Sam flinches a little. “Okay, _yeah_ …but… Can’t we ever be more than that? We lost so much…can’t we just…have this?”  
  
Dean closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the door’s edge. “I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow.”  
  
“Dean—“  
  
“Ask me tomorrow,” he says again, his voice cracking. “For the love of God, Sam… _please_.”  
  
Sam nods curtly. “Okay.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Breathing hard, Dean closes the door and goes to wash the smell and taste of his brother away, however temporarily.  
  
 


	2. Chapter 2: Take It All Away

Take It All Away  
  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Rating: R for all manner of wrong including underage sex and incest.   
Length: ~600 words  
A/N-Warnings: Similarly Wincesty response fic to [](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/profile) **poisontaster** 's "Blurry". There is underage sexuality and general fucked up themes of wrongness. I think I simultaneously blew my brain up and sort of squicked myself with this one. I kinda like it. *breathes deep* Makes me feel alive. Jesus god I love these pretty broken boys.  
  
~  
  
Sam needs this.  
  
He needs this like he needs oxygen. Like he needs his shotgun and Jess' favorite necklace that she gave him before he left, saying, _"Be careful, okay? I know that this isn't…well, whatever. I know there's more going on here and you're so telling me what it is when you get back, okay?  
  
I love you, Sam."_  


 

  
  
Sam knows this is fucked up. He _knows_ that. But so is a beloved woman, pinned to the ceiling, dripping blood onto his forehead like the mark of Cain.  
  
Sam knows he's irreparably damaged, so many times, so many ways.   
  
So when it becomes too much, when he's trembling and standing over Dean's bed, when he's folding his long body into a crawl, moving toward Dean saying, "Dean…I need. Will you…"   
  
Dean squeezes his eyes shut hard for just a second then lays his newspapers aside and says, "Yeah, Sammy. Yeah. Come here."   
  
Dean reaches for him with both hands. That would be the best part but for what comes after.  
  
Sam knows what he's doing to Dean. The guilt. How fucked this whole thing is. How he's rending Dean's soul bit by bit, binding it to his own with it's ragged, bleeding edges. Just like Sam knows he needs it anyway.  


 

  
  
' _When That Succubus_.'   
  
That's how Sam always thinks of it in his head. He never finishes the thought, never thinks about that job, what that evil fucking bitch did to them before they banished her ass back to the furthest corner of hell they could manage. Dad drank that night until he fell asleep and Dean took a shower that lasted entirely too long and Sam ended up in a little double bed with Dean, sweating and twitching and freaking out while Dad snored unevenly a few feet away.   
  
Dean was sixteen and Sammy was twelve and they weren't living anywhere in particular just then.  


 

  
  
"Okay, dude. Seriously. What? You keep shaking the bed with all your tossing and shit and it's really fucking annoying."  
  
"Dean…"  
  
"Sammy? What, man, you're…oh god you're burning up, what's…?"  
  
"Dean I...she did something to me and I don't know…"  
  
Dean takes a breath, "Oh." Then takes another and laughs a little too heartily. "I guess this means you're growing up, Sammy. Welcome to puberty."  
  
"Don't make fun of me, Dean!" His face burns and tears prick at his eyes as he buries his face into the pillow. "I can't."  
  
"I'm not, man, I'm not. Hey, it's okay." Dean's voice shakes a little. "I know what you need, Sammy. I'll take care of you."  


 

  
  
Dean strokes his back as Sammy thrusts against the thin sheets and says things like, "Just… just move your hand up under and wrap it around…yeah there you go. Just. Yeah."  
  
"Dean… Dean… _Dean_ …"  
  
"Shhh, man…it's okay. It's going to be okay. Come on, Sammy. It's okay. Let go."  
  
Sammy comes with Dean's newly deepened voice rasping in his ears and his broadening hand stroking from the back of Sam's neck down over the curve of his ass.  
  
"She..."  
  
"I know. But now it's yours again."  
  
_I think it's yours, Dean._  


 

  
  
When his brother's fingers sink into his body, Sam can finally breathe, can finally close his eyes without fear. When Dean starts to fuck him, lowers his forehead to rest between Sam's shoulder blades, his shuddering breath ghosting through the canyon of Sam's spine, when Dean unconsciously holds Sam down with their fingers entwined; Sam can finally _stop fucking thinking_.  
  
And Sam _needs_ this. Like he needs oxygen and his shotgun and Jess' favorite necklace...  



	3. Chapter 3: Imposters in This Country

Fandom: Supernatural  
Series: Every Broken Thing  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Rating: Adult.  
Word Count: 4227  
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for "Nightmare".  
Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of m/m incest and dubious consent. There is no fluff here. Angst, however, we have in plenty.  
AN: So here’s how it was. I wrote Blurry, which was _supposed_ to be a short PWP for [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[**mona1347**](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/). But then she wrote Take It All Away, and suddenly we had actual… _story_. Mythology, even. And things got out of control, even for us. So after _many_ IMs about problematic blowjobs and a general lack of lube [to which I responded at one point…”do YOU know an 18 year old boy who doesn’t have **some** variety of lubricant in his bedside drawer?” ~ Mona], we wrote out a _timeline_ (actually TWO) and then we wrote a whole tragedy in…six? (well, sorta seven) parts and now they tell us we have our own domain in the special hell. Yes, yes. Many, many thanks to the incomparable and gracious [ ](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) who took the whole concept of beta and friend to a new level while Mona & I flailed and hyperventilated our way through this. Hallowed be her name.  
  
[Please someone stop us. **We must be stopped!** ~ Mona] Don’t mind Mona. *pets* Everything is just fine.  
  
At the restaurant the next morning, Dean makes a point of flirting with the waitress. She actually seems into his particular brand of crazy, grinning and flirting back, shameless as any cat in heat. The diner's pretty much empty and she flutters glittered eyelashes and invites him into the back.   
  
Sam doesn't know if the flicker of darkness in Dean's eyes as he glances Sam's way is wishful thinking or not. In any case, a second later, the million-kilowatt smile is firmly back in place and Dean slides out of the booth while Sam stabs moodily at his oatmeal.  
  
He has no reason to feel jealous. Dean's not _his_ ; Dean's just his brother. Just. And just because it was his ass Dean's cock was filling last night doesn't mean he gets any say in what Dean does with it today. Especially when _he's_ the reason Dean does it in the first place.  
  
 _...can't we just...have this?  
  
...I don't know. Ask me tomorrow._  
  
It's tomorrow. Sam hasn't asked.  
  
He shoves his bowl away, stomach soured.  
  
The waitress—Becky, the nametag on those upstanding breasts said Becky—starts making noise; loud, slurry moans through the cardboard wall of the kitchen or a storage closet or, fuck, whatever. Sam doesn’t really care right now because all he can see behind his eyes is Dean pressing her—fucking her—into the wall and whispering encouragement in her ear. _Louder. C’mon baby, scream for me._  
  
The diner’s only other customer, a slightly older guy with glasses and a beard, folds up his newspaper, drops some cash on the table and jets. Sam envies him. Oh, he could get up and leave; he could go sit in the Impala, or whatever, but he’d still know. And Dean would come back and know that he drove Sam out. Sam’s not going to give him the satisfaction.  
  
It doesn’t stop him, however, from eating every last crumb of Dean’s pancakes, eggs and bacon.  
  


***

  
  
This isn't working.  
  
He can get Dean to fuck him, he can make Dean come, but it's...impersonal. A duty. A responsibility like some list Dean's got in his head: Gas the car, shoot the bad guys, clean the guns, fuck your brother senseless...check. He won't let Sam kiss him or touch him; he won't have Sam any other way than on his knees so they don't have to look each other in the face. He leaves no marks ( _anymore_ ) and claims no ownership.  
  
 _Shh_ , Dean says, _I know what you need._  
  
But it's not true. Not like it used to be. Sam needs something else now; he's just not sure how to go about getting it.  
  
And the damn thing is, Sam doesn’t know when this happened.  
  
Wanting Dean…well, that’s been forever, more conscious at some times than others, but he doesn’t know when he so thoroughly gave up even on the pretense of normal, when he let himself get taken over by this yawing desperation for _Dean, Dean, Dean._  
  
Sometime between shooting Dean in a red and cloudy hyper-rage and almost losing him to a heart broken in the line of fire? _Earlier_ , when he saw his one lifeline to normal go up in a cloud of flame? Or _later_ , with Cassie, who could have been Dean’s version of normal? Or was it even earlier, before Stanford entirely?   
  
( _No, we don’t talk/speak/think about that…_ )  
  
Does it even matter—when? Would tracing the cause be like another job, where he splashes gasoline over the corpse of _why_ , burns it and becomes free? Could it really be that easy? Does he even _want_ to be free?  
  
 _I wanted this. I…want it. I want you._  
  
Three times. Three times he’s managed to beg, trick or cajole Dean into fucking him; a magic number, but not, apparently, magical enough. Sam rakes both hands through his hair, puts his head in his arms on the table and waits for Dean and Becky to be done.  
  


***

  
  
“I can’t _believe_ you did that!”  
  
Sam slouches deeper in the seat. “I was hungry,” he says, belied by the queasy roil of his stomach.  
  
“Hey—careful of the glove box, Gigantor!”  
  
Sam grinds down on the impulse to shove his knees further in the dashboard just from spite. He’s not twelve anymore. Still, he’s aware he’s perilous close to that line when he mutters, “Maybe if you hadn’t left me out there for so long I wouldn’t have _been_ so hungry.”  
  
Dean glances over at him and one eyebrow kinks for a split second, too fast for Sam to tell what it means. Then it’s eyes back on the road and a faint hateful smirk. “Maybe if you ordered a _real_ breakfast instead of that glop you insist as passing off as food, you wouldn’t have to resort to eating _mine_.”  
  
“Fuck you, Dean.”  
  
He expects Dean to come back with one of his patented smart-assed remarks, something biting and sarcastic; something that will give him the leeway to unleash everything that bubbles beneath the surface.  
  
But Dean doesn’t say anything. Instead, he upshifts the Impala roughly, the gears grinding in protest. He _never_ grinds the Impala’s gears. Sam looks over and sees Dean’s hands are clenched on wheel and gearshift respectively, white-knuckled and taut.  
  
“Fuck,” Sam mutters to himself, puts his head back and pretends to sleep.  
  


***

  
  
“I mean, aren’t we ever going to say anything about it?”  
  
It just bursts out of him, as surprising to him as it probably is to Dean.   
  
Dean doesn’t look surprised. He looks blank and sort of pissed. “Dude, what _is_ it with you and all the fucking talking? What are we sharing our feelings about now?”  
  
Sam’s got Jess’s necklace wound tight around his fingers; when his hand clenches, the braided leather cuts and abrades the skin. But what he says is, “How about us?”  
  
It’s a little strange, how much he’s had to relearn Dean’s expressions; much harder than retraining on knife or bow. They’ve changed a lot. And for all his surface shallowness, there’s a deep-rooted opacity beneath that Sam’s never been on the wrong side of before. So he doesn’t know if there’s anything to the sketchy eyeball Dean throws his way. “Is this about Dad again? Because we’ll…”  
  
“ _No._ ” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I don’t mean us like the Winchesters, I mean _us_ , man. You and me.”  
  
And really, maybe he’s not ready for this conversation either, because he can’t bring himself to come out and say it. Not blank and bald and in the pitiless light of day. _So…have you noticed we’re having sex lately? Like…progressively **more** sex? Because I have. And I’m just wondering… Well. I’m wondering if that happens to mean anything to you?_  
  
Sam cringes from the thought of _that_ conversation. _This is why lawyers prepare their statements ahead of time_ , he thinks.  
  
“Well, last I checked, _you and me_ are on our way to…where are we going again?”  
  
Sam sighs. “Saginaw.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean swings out past an eighteen wheeler into oncoming traffic and Sam gropes for the door handle until they’re back in their lane, quietly pressing a nonexistent passenger’s side brake pedal.  
  
“That’s not what I mean.”  
  
“I don’t know what the hell you mean, so stop sniffing the glue and focus, dude. This is _your_ dream we’re chasing. Shouldn’t you be thinking about _that?_? Or fuck, man, get some sleep; we both know you’re not getting enough of that.”   
  
Sam opens his hands and looks down at Jess’s necklace, the erratic strobe of the headlights revealing and concealing the tiny diamond shaped pendant. Softly, he says, “You told me to ask.”  
  
The silence goes on so long that he doesn’t think Dean’s going to answer. Then Dean sighs quietly. “I said ask me tomorrow,” he says finally, no louder than that sigh. “It’s not tomorrow any more, it’s today.” Another gap in words, just as awkward and Sam’s throat tightens and sours. “Get some sleep, Sam; I’ll get us to Saginaw.”  
  


***

  
  
Michigan is miles behind them. Sam can’t sleep.   
  
Every time he closes his eyes, it plays out again. Not the actual nightmare or vision or whatever the hell it is, but just a stupid mental tape loop of _that_ moment. The moment Dean dies.  
  
It’s over. He _knows_ its over, but he can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop seeing it. Can’t stop making it hurt like it’s real, like he’s bleeding to death under his skin where something vital, something _important_ was ripped away along with the back of Dean’s skull.  
  
Finally he can’t take it any more. He flings back the thin blanket and cheap sheet in a swooping wave. Dean insisted on separate beds, even though they can can’t really afford the extra cash. He stands swaying over Dean’s bed for a long time, just listening to the soft snore of breath, watching the blanket rise and fall in the tiger-striped light. He needs to _see_ , but seeing isn’t enough. He needs to touch, but he’s scared.  
  
There’s never been a time before that he didn’t think he could reach out his hand and find Dean there. Not when he was little and Dean was the center of everything, not when he left, needing his own center, not at Stanford when he was completely out of their orbit altogether. Now Dean’s—quite literally—all he has. All he ever really had to begin with.  
  
Sam’s head aches. It’s ached for days. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. He’s so _tired_ of thinking.  
  
Dean wakes when Sam’s weight hits the edge of the bed. One hand immediately slides under the pillow for his knife, but then he lifts his head, blinks blearily and asks, “Sam?”  
  
Sam’s throat is dry. So dry. He opens his mouth and for a moment, nothing comes out. _Dean,_ he thinks, and finally manages a rusty, “Yeah.”  
  
“Shit.” Dean’s breath hisses out of him and he falls back onto the pillow with his eyes closed. “What the hell, Sam? You trying to give me…” Dean trails off and Sam’s hands clench. “Never mind. Dammit. I was having a really good dream.”  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ , still perched on the edge of the bed. It would be so _easy_ ; to just stretch out his hand and make contact. Warm, _living_ , breathing skin. But his arm remains at his side, limp as if all the muscles have been severed.  
  
When he speaks again, Dean’s voice is different, less breezy. He sighs. “What, Sammy? Another dream?” In the daytime, Dean would make the question teasing, mocking. It’s different between them at night.  
  
The understatement of the thought, the greatest understatement of his entire _life_ , makes Sam laugh, a yelping bark.  
  
“Fuck.” Dean says the word dully and without heat. Then his hands are on Sam’s biceps drawing him back and down, into the cradle of Dean’s bones. “Like this,” Dean says. “Okay? Just…just this.”  
  
Sam nods. “Okay.”  
  
He breathes out and arches his back into Dean’s warmth as though this is allowed. As though he can _have_ this.  
  
The truth is that he’d take anything.  
  


***

  
  
Sometimes he thinks Dean might need him--want him--as much as he wants Dean. It's nothing spoken (of course it's not) but sometimes...when Dean's hands linger too long, stitching, bandaging, tracing old scars and new; when he changes clothes or comes out of the shower and some shadow crosses Dean's eyes a moment before he looks away; when he falls asleep in the car and dreams hazily of someone's hand on his head, stroking, and wakes up with his hair mussed...  
  
He thinks, _This. This is something._ And _, I can use this._  
  
And then, despairing, he thinks, _I am **so** going to hell for this._  
  
But he doesn't stop. Of course he doesn't.  
  


***

  
  
When he wakes, it’s still dark, but he knows dawn is near. Dean’s against his back, arms lax and careless around him, a presence of drowsing heat.   
  
There’s another aspect to this.   
  
Against the curve of his lower back, Dean is hard.  
  
Sam doesn’t take it personally…but he’d like to. He’d like to believe it has something to do with the weight of his body in Dean’s arms, something to do with _Sam_ and not just random morning wood and friction.  
  
 _You can **make** it about you,_ a voice that sounds remarkably like his own observes, and Sam feels his own cock twitch in response. The breath in his lungs turns superheated and semiliquid, taking twice as much effort to move and burning as it goes.  
  
Sam turns over. This isn’t the first time he and Dean have shared a bed. Dean moves with him without waking; rolls onto his back and his right arm pulls Sam along, in against his side. Sam breathes out and slides with the pull, ending up with the rhythmic beat of Dean’s heart under his cheek and his hand flattened just above Dean’s pelvis. Just above Dean’s still-hard dick.  
  
Dean’s hand traces sleepy, aimless swirls over the naked skin of Sam’s back and shoulders. It should be comforting, and it _is_ , but it also brings all the blood stinging to the surface of his skin, hot and pebbled with goose bumps. It goes straight to his cock, iron-hard and sensitive.  
  
Jess used to delight in that, the hypersensitivity of his back and neck, not knowing. A single glide of the fingernail that produces arousal, automatic and mostly helpless. It’s been a while since he’s thought of her-- _her_ , untangled by the rage and the blackness, and it feels appropriate that it’s now, like this, with the only other person he’s ever loved that way.  
  
Sam shifts again, just a little, careful and furtive. Just a little bend of his knees, a little slide of his head.   
  
Sam's just going to rest his head here. That's all. Just...rest. Against his brother's dick; oh God. Sam breathes in deep, cheek sliding along worn boxers and the hardened skin beneath. Dean's cock twitches and his hips shift a little. Fuck. Sam's losing it. He's fucking losing it. He nuzzles harder, a small desperate moan leaking between his lips. The part in Dean's boxers splits against the skin of Sam's face and, oh god, Sam can see, can _feel_ , a sliver of hot and silky flesh pressing against the fabric, begging to come out and...he's just going to taste. He just has to taste it, just once, he's just going to... _oh god Dean_.  
  
Dean makes a half-noise, stifled and deep in his chest. The fingers of one hand thread deeply into Sam’s hair, palming his skull; the other grips Sam’s shoulder, both gestures hard and sudden as if he’ll push Sam off or down or away. Like…any moment.   
  
But he doesn’t.  
  
Sam reaches up and closes his fingers over Dean’s wrist. Not to grab or squeeze. Just holding on, but he can feel Dean’s pulse drum and roll under his thumb. Sam closes his eyes, opens his mouth and takes Dean in, all hard lips and gentle teeth, tonguing roughly and grinding his own hips into the sheet like that time, that first time.  
  
Dean gasps. His hands _dig_ ; tomorrow Sam will wear this mark, Dean’s bruise on his shoulder and the thought aches and kindles in his belly and groin, blood-hot and wicked. Then—impossibly, incredibly—Dean’s grip goes lax. His hands fall away, shaking, to lie flat on the mattress and he arches, cock fucking deeper into Sam’s mouth in a single slow thrust. “S… _Sam_ ,” Dean breathes, like it hurts to say it, like it just _hurts_.  
  
They’ve never done this before, Sam’s mouth on Dean, Sam _servicing_ Dean the way Dean seems to always give Sam what he needs. Sam is dizzy from more than lack of air and hot oily drops of pre-come sear the back of his throat. Sam makes a noise of his own—needy, greedy—and shoves Dean’s thighs up and further apart, golden wiry hairs crinkling under his nails. His thumb traces arcs in the crease of Dean’s leg, where the tendons jitter and quiver in response. Dean shakes, hard racking shivers, though his hands stay at his sides. He makes choked-off little cries in which Sam can only decipher pieces of words.  
  
”…ah…notokay…God, fuck…no…no…nngh…”  
  
He wants to tell Dean it _is_ okay, it’s better than okay, but if he stops, if he takes his mouth away, he knows they’ll never get it back, this moment. Dean will push him away, push him off ; fuck or suck him until he’s boneless, stupid and spent and has forgotten why he’s doing this in the first place.  
  
But the other side of that is not letting Dean think too much or too long. Sam grabs Dean’s hands and shoves them back into his hair, letting the fingernails scrape against his scalp as he rises and sinks again, sliding and rubbing his mouth wetly over Dean.  
  
More of those breathless quiet moans and Dean’s wrists tighten again like he wants to pull away. Sam lips the ridge of Dean’s cock head and tongues the slit, tasting salt and skin and pre-come, while at the same time continuing to hold Dean’s hands in place.  
  
 _Come on, come on, come on_ , Sam thinks, over the friction of his own body against the rough-soft texture of the sheets. _Dammit, Dean, just…can’t you fucking let go for once? Just do it. Please, just…  
  
Just touch me.  
  
Just…fuck my mouth._  
  
When Sam goes down again, Dean arches up a second time, making a terrible, tearing groan and his hands fist and tighten in Sam’s hair. ”Sam,” he whispers again, hardly a sound at all. “Oh fuck, _Sam…_ ”  
  
 _Yes!_ Sam thinks. What actually comes out of him is far more inarticulate and louder than he expects, a humming moan around Dean’s cock. _Yes, yes, yes, oh God, **finally** , yes!_  
  
Tiny tremors run under Dean’s skin as he holds Sam’s head steady, but then he’s _doing it_ , thrusting steady and careful—oh, so _careful_ —into Sam’s mouth. Sam can feel each of Dean’s fingers individually, cradled around the bone, the pinkies dragging against the delicate and sensitive skin of his neck. The touch shivers down his spine and vibrates in his cock like a goddamned tuning fork.   
  
It takes Sam a minute to coordinate it all, breathing, sucking, the dizzy fever heat in his own dick as he grinds and slides into the sheets and mattress like that time, that first time, but he knows he’s got it when Dean goes from near-silent half-murmurs into a rising, deepening, rasping, “Oh, fuck, oh Sam, _Sam…_ , oh fuck, _Sam_ …” and his fingers slip and slide through Sam’s hair, alternately gripping and loosening.  
  
Sam’s mind goes— _finally_ —and he takes it, wet and sloppy and completely inexpert until Dean can’t be careful anymore, bucking hard against the back of Sam’s throat.  
  
”Fuck…no…no…wait… _Sam_ …”  
  
At once, he’s trying to pull Sam away, and Sam knows Dean’s about to come, his chest and breath hitching, his hips erratic and half-wild. Sam reaches up and disentangles Dean’s hands, locking his fingers through those of his brother’s as he inhales and takes Dean as deep as he can, deeper than is entirely comfortable, poised on the edge of his own orgasm.  
  
“Oh…oh, _fuck_!”  
  
Dean _shatters_ , shaking, breaking, crying out hoarsely in a voice Sam doesn’t even recognize, and that’s all it takes, he’s coming apart too, hot, wet and sticky all over the sheets, his thighs, his belly.  
  
He milks and swallows until Dean is empty and then lets Dean slide out and over his lips one last time, panting and only dimly aware of the ache in his jaw. Dean’s fingers slip away from his, fumbling over his shoulders and then down, until he’s pulling Sam up to him, Sam’s hands and knees sliding awkwardly as he goes.  
  
Dean’s mouth hits his in a clash of teeth and lips that borders on bloody, Dean’s tongue pushing hard against Sam’s. It’s been so long since he’s been kissed at all—by anything human, at any rate, and never by Dean. Never. Oh God, never. Sam makes a noise against Dean’s lips, loud and embarrassing— _finally, God, **finally!**_ —and even so recently spent, his cock gives a half-hearted twitch.  
  
Dean reaches down the length of Sam’s body and slips under Sam’s boxers. If Sam could speak, he’d tell Dean, but Dean’s relentless in his second plunder of Sam’s mouth. Instead, Sam puts his hand over Dean’s, smears it through the wetness splattered across him and coats both their fingers.  
  
Dean twitches, startled and pulls back, glazed green eyes blinking into Sam’s. “You…already?”  
  
Sam doesn’t answer, though the blush burns in his ears and face. Instead, he brings their conjoined fingers up to Dean’s mouth and says softly, “Please?”  
  
First Dean’s eyes close, and then Sam’s as Dean bends to gently and thoroughly lick, nibble and suck the milky remainder of Sam’s come from both their hands. Sam’s heart stutters and again he feels his breath alter to something thick and other than air, scalding across his skin.  
  
“You want me,” he breathes, like a revelation, a whisper that goes across Dean’s sweaty skin and causes shivers like ripples. “You do. You want me.”  
  
He opens his eyes and finds Dean already looking at him, a trace of impatience in his face. “Don’t be stupid,” he says.  
  
Dean says that a lot, but it’s not often he can make Sam _feel_ stupid. “But… Then… Then _why_?”  
  
Dean rolls onto his back, characteristically impatient. “Because it doesn’t work.”  
  
“It could.”  
  
“It can’t.”  
  
“How can you say that?” Sam levers up on his elbow. “No one has to know, Dean.”  
  
“I could give a shit about other people, Sam.” Dean jerks his arm from underneath Sam and sits up. “I’m going to shower.”  
  
Sam reaches and catches Dean just above his elbow. Dean’s the more solidly muscled, but Sam has the stubbornness and the leverage. “Wait. Dean, I want to talk about this.”  
  
“When _don’t_ you want to talk about it, Sam?” Dean’s face is turned away and under the sarcasm, his voice sounds uneven. “Christ. I just want to take a fucking shower. You’re going to need one too. Unless you’re planning on sleeping like that.”  
  
“Is that an invitation?”  
  
Dean’s shoulders tighten, but he says nothing. It’s always his last refuge, silence; as long as Sam can remember.  
  
“We can dance around this forever, Dean, but it’s not going to change the facts. You like fucking me. Okay? We like fucking each other.”  
  
“I don’t…!” Dean breaks off and almost visibly grinds his teeth together. “It’s not about what I like. Or what _you_ like.”  
  
“We’re grown adults. I mean…okay, it’s a little not normal…” Dean scoffs, but Sam pushes on anyway, his fingers digging harder into Dean’s skin as he gets angrier. “It’s not normal, but when have we ever done ‘normal’, Dean? We’re not hurting anybody.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about this.”  
  
“You never do. But I’m sick of this, Dean. I’m sick of having you only halfway.”  
  
“Oh, _that’s_ rich.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” _And why won’t you look at me?_  
  
“You’re always so fast to point up how smart you are any other time, Sammy; why is it times like this you always play dumb?”  
  
“Maybe for the same reason you can never just come out and say what the hell it is you mean?”   
  
_How is this happening?_ Sam wonders, even as his mouth, his voice, go on without him. _**Why** is this happening? When did we go from post-coital to post-Apocalyptic?_  
  
“I _said_ what the fuck it is I mean,” Dean snaps. “But as usual, you’re only hearing—and remembering—what you want to.”  
  
“Then what, Dean? Why don’t you explain it to me one more time?” Sam reaches out and touches Dean’s naked back, still sweaty, feeling it flinch and then tense. “Explain to me how you don’t want this.” He slides a little forward and mouths one of Dean’s vertebra. Dean’s breath catches. “Explain to me…” Kiss. “Why…” Kiss. “We can’t.” Sam rises to his knees until his lips brush the nape of Dean’s neck. “Why it won’t work.”  
  
Dean sighs and it’s like everything goes out of him with his breath, leaving him shrunken and tired. He turns and catches Sam by the wrists, holding Sam off. “Because you leave, Sam,” he says. The look on his face…God. Fuck. “You…don’t want this. And I… There’s only so much I can give, to put it back together again when you go.”   
  
“I’m not gone,” Sam protests, but even he hears the unspoken _yet_ in his words and knows he’s said the exact wrong thing. This life…it’s a means to an end, and Dean…is something else. Dean is…forever. But the distinction is wasted on Dean. In Dean’s mind, he _is_ the life.  
  
“It won’t work,” Dean says again, softly. “It can’t.”  
  
“Dean—“  
  
“No. Just…stop it. Stop this. Please. Because…it’s just about all I can handle…being what you need.”  
  
“Dean—“  
  
“I’m going to shower,” Dean says, and this time it’s Dad’s voice, the final voice that allows no argument or reprieve. He lets Sam’s wrists go and Sam settles back on his knees, just smart enough to know when he’s lost. Again.

 


	4. Chapter 4: these boys i mean are not refined

Fandom: Supernatural  
Series: Every Broken Thing (4/7)  
Pairing: Sam/Dean   
Rating: Adult. Liek whoa.  
Word Count: 1866  
Spoilers: None. Pre-series.  
Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of m/m incest, dubious consent and violence. There is no fluff here. Angst, however, we have in plenty.  
AN: So here’s how it was. I wrote Blurry, which was _supposed_ to be a short PWP for [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[**mona1347**](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/). But then she wrote Take It All Away, and suddenly we had actual… _story_.  
  
So after _Blurry_ and _Take it All Away_ came Imposters in This Country. And we now present _these boys i mean are not refined_ , **an interlude that takes place pre-series, prior to Sam’s departure for Stanford.**  
  
{I think this is my favorite one. Which is a little disturbing to me but whatever. ~ Mona) (mine too. ~PT)  
  
Many, many thanks to the incomparable and gracious [ ](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/)**inlovewithnight** who took the whole concept of beta and friend to a new level while Mona  & I flailed and hyperventilated our way through this. She's an utter goddess.  
  
  
 **the boys i mean are not refined**  
by e e cummings  
  
The boys i mean are not refined  
They go with girls who buck and bite  
They do not give a fuck for luck  
They hump them thirteen times a night  
  
One hangs a hat upon her tit  
One carves a cross on her behind  
They do not give a shit for wit  
The boys i mean are not refined  
  
They come with girls who bite and buck  
Who cannot read and cannot write  
Who laugh like they would fall apart  
And masturbate with dynamite  
  
The boys i mean are not refined  
They cannot chat of that and this  
They do not give a fart for art  
They kill like you would take a piss  
  
They speak whatever's on their mind  
They do whatever's in their pants  
The boys i mean are not refined  
They shake the mountains when they dance  
  
  
He... They...  
  
Fuck.  
  
Sam can't get warm. In the rising sunshine, he shivers, chewing his torn lip until it bleeds anew, fat crimson drops that taste like copper.  
  


***

  
  
Leaving. Fucking _leaving_.  
  
"I want a life, Dean!"  
  
Well, what the fuck is _this_?  
  
Leaving. Leaving "this", leaving _them_. Leaving him.  
  
Like it's so fucking _easy._  
  
Dammit.  
  


***

  
  
"Hey...kid. You all right?"  
  
The question, kindly asked, drags Sam up out of a drowning torrent of thoughts that go nowhere, shattered and half-formed. He blinks. Still, he's a Winchester; his nod and smile are automatic, brilliant fakes only betrayed when the gesture pulls his scabbed lip and makes it bleed again.  
  
He... They... _Dean_.  
  
He can't speak. Can't think, overwhelmed by the sense memory of Dean. On top of him. _Inside_ him, causing pain and pleasure in about equal measure until it had been scream or come and he hadn't wanted to give Dean the satisfaction of a scream, spurting all over himself and the frayed sheets instead.  
  
It happened so _fast._  
  


***

  
  
Dean doesn't know what his plan is when he bursts into Sam's room. He fully accepts that there probably _is_ no plan. Only the sight of Sam, sprawled out and heavy-damp with sleep. Only this gnawing sense of _breaking_ , like he’ll fly into pieces if he doesn't do _something_.  
  
He's on Sam before he has time to think about it.  
  


***

  
  
They've done...things before. Or rather, Dean's done things to _him_ , with his rather enthusiastic approval. Not a lot. Enough. But nothing...nothing like this.  
  
Sam doesn't know what's worse; that it happened, that it happened _now_ , or that he doesn't know how the fuck he feels about it.  
  
They'd already had their fight—fights—slamming doors and screaming insults with equal force while avoiding saying anything that matters…but then it was night and everything was new. Dad just up and _left_ two days before; just _gone_ and without a word to either of them. They're alone and Dean… Dean.  
  


***

  
  
Sam's fingers are fisted into the folds of his pillow when Dean prowls into the room like a thief. He closes the distance between the door and the edge of Sam’s bed. Then he’s down. The mattress dips under his weight; he presses one hand hard between Sam’s prominent shoulder blades, holding him. _You don’t get to get out of this._  
  
Sam wakes up when Dean pounces; of course he does, he's a Winchester. Dean feels a momentary flash of pride at his brother’s fighting instincts. But it's too late. Dean has Sam's wrists pinned, his knees between Sam's forcing Sam flat, apart.   
  
Sam jerks once, as if testing the limits of the hold and then his head comes up. "D-Dean?" He sounds sleepy and a little startled, but not angry. Not scared, even with Dean's dick pressing hard and insistent in the crack of his ass.   
  
Dean's fingers tighten around Sam’s bony wrists and he closes his eyes tight, panting hot and fast on the nape of Sam's neck. Dean’s mouth closes over Sam’s shoulder to suck and lick at the little constellation of birthmarks there. Sam doesn’t relax; his body is still clenched and vibrating with tension. Dean doesn't know what he's waiting for until Sam's breath goes out of him in a soft huff and Sam's hips shift and roll, bringing every inch of him in contact with every bit of Dean.  
  
Dean's breath hitches and he suddenly doesn't know what to name the emotion chewing between his shoulder blades, exactly where he can’t see or touch; whether it's lust or hate or a love so tangled and screwed up it can't be separated from the other two.  
  
He bites down sharply on the nape of Sam’s neck and hears his blood sing through his veins in a spiteful kind of triumph at Sam’s choked-off moan because Dean feels…mean. Hot and tight like his skin is shrinking, like something ugly is about to erupt from the thin barrier of his flesh and Dean wants Sam to _hurt_. He wants to mark him, brand himself into Sam’s skin, to _make_ him feel. Feel anything but happy to finally be getting gone.  
  


***

  
  
It would be easy to put the blame all on Dean. Dean attacked _him_. Dean hurt _him_. Dean…fucked _him_.   
  
Except that’s not true. That’s not true at all. And college isn’t the only reason he’s leaving home.  
  
He touches the deep split in his mouth, scabbing again.  
  
No, some of this is damage he’s done to himself.  
  


***

  
  
It becomes a race to tear off Sam’s boxers and his own, to yank open the second bedside drawer where Sam keeps his lotion, to coat himself, cock and fingers, and Sam.  
  
His grip is one-handed and unsteady, sloppy. At any point, Sam could jerk away from him, turn the tables, resist.  
  
But he doesn’t. And that just pisses Dean off that much more. _How can you?_ he thinks, and he doesn’t know if it’s Sam or himself he’s talking to as he stabs inside Sam with his finger.  
  
Sam hisses and pushes his face into the mattress, pushes _back_ onto Dean, whole body shaking. Dean bends his head and bites down again _hard_ , just over the scapula, tastes blood. He lets go of Sam’s wrists and pulls his finger out roughly, fumbling angrily and hastily with his own slicked cock. He didn’t prepare Sam enough, not nearly enough, but neither one of them are really prepared for _this_ , are they? Not by a long fucking shot.  
  
Because Sam’s leaving—fucking _leaving_ —and that’s a first, and this is a first for them too. Seems appropriate. No one gets out unscathed.  
  


***

  
  
His bladder’s aching, the first concrete sensation since… Since. He has no memory of walking the twenty or so blocks between their apartment and the bus station, no clear recollection of buying the ticket held loosely in his hand. They’re only things he knows _must_ have happened, since here he is. It frightens him more than a little, going against everything Dad and Dean tried to instill in him since damn near birth. Be alert, be aware, on your toes…  
  
Anything could have happened. Anything.  
  
Or maybe it already did, and anything else would have just been laughable in comparison.  
  
Suddenly, Sam really needs to go to the bathroom.  
  


***

  
  
It’s a single slow thrust into Sam. Inexorable. Because they never _have_ done this and he may be angry, but it’s still Sammy, _his_ Sammy. Sam lets an actual noise escape—gasping, moaning, _broken_ —but he opens for him; Sam just fucking _opens_ for him, like he's giving in, except that's a lie. Sam _never_ fucking gives in and Dean knows this isn't surrender; it's just the end.   
  
They fuck in near-silence, except for the soft grunts and whimpers of the act itself; Sam because he’s said everything he has to say and Dean because he’s always said everything—everything important—with his body anyway.  
  
Sam’s hands are fisted in the sheets, his spine tense and flexing against Dean’s thrusts. Dean is aware of the burning in his eyes, that he’s dripping more than sweat onto the long line of Sam’s back, and still he can't stop himself from pounding in and clawing out the last thing he's ever going to get to say to Sam—Mine. _Mine_. You. Are. Mine—in the only way he can, with his teeth and his fingers and his cock. Bruising, hurting but Sam keeps thrusting back onto him, just as hard, just as rageful and it’s all just _too fucked up_ …  
  
Sam cries out for the second time when he comes, biting down on his lip and turning his face against the sheet to muffle it, as if he doesn’t want Dean to hear. The sound, and the tight jitter of Sam’s body around Dean’s cock drags his orgasm from him, unwilling; a hemorrhage of spunk and unspooling rage until he’s emptied and empty. He falls, breathing hard, sliding against Sam’s sweat-slick and bloodied skin. He wants to hang on, but this is all it ever is; sliding away, sliding off, trying to hold and just…missing. Sometimes by inches.  
  
A third noise when he pulls out of Sam, bitten off and stifled. That one. That’s the one he’ll carry. Sam shivers too, and Dean understands, because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt as cold as he does right now. He pulls back onto his knees and doesn’t bother cleaning off, just yanks his boxers up. Sam doesn’t move, his face hidden by the rocky peak of his shoulder.  
  
 _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but he isn’t. Not really. Sorry about the whole fucking thing, this unhealed mess of magic and need, but not sorry that he has—had—this.   
  
Dean is crawling off the bed when Sam turns, lunges and grabs him by the wrist, hard enough to crush the two bones together. Dean’s gaze splits, torn between the splatter of come across Sam’s flat belly and the stony look in his eyes. He doesn’t know where to look and settles on some distance between them.  
  
“I’m still going,” Sam says.  
  
Dean’s jaw clenches tight enough he’s amazed his teeth don’t grind to powder and he jerks out of Sam’s grip, leaving more than a little skin behind.   
  
“I know.”  
  


***

  
  
Sam looks at himself in the scratched and smeared mirror, bladder forgotten. Under ugly fluorescents, his skin looks gray instead of brown, his hair unkempt and uncut. The cut on his lip is deep, horrible, almost black and his cheekbone is abraded from scraping against the rough sheets.  
  
He stares for a long time.  
  
Then, still in that cotton batted fugue, he reaches down and pulls both of his shirts—long-sleeved thermal and T-shirt—up and over his head.  
  
The glare of the buzzing lights is equally unflattering to the rest of his body. On his wrists the shadows of Dean’s fingers; on his shoulder and neck the sloppy crescents of Dean’s teeth and the purple-black smears left behind by his lips. Elsewhere other bruises, slickly black, and the angry red scrawls of nail gouges. He feels them elsewhere too; on his back, thighs, on his hips…but he’s afraid to look. This…this is just about all he can handle right now.  
  
He doesn’t touch himself, his skin. His hands barely feel like they belong to him anyway, but that’s not it. He doesn’t need to touch them to know where and what each hurt is. He remembers them all, remembers the feel of them, going on, going in. He closes his eyes and he can still feel… _everything_.  
  
Sam stares. Sam remembers, as he will every day over the next several. He knows already these marks, these markings, will still be there, all the way to California. They are, quite possibly, the last legacy of being a Winchester, like a gang member getting jumped in or out. And that seems fitting too.  
  
Slowly, Sam shrugs back into his clothes and goes to catch his bus. It won’t be until later—after the bus crosses the state line—that he’ll press his face into the folded wad of his jacket and cry in silence until he’s dizzy and can’t breathe.


	5. Chapter 5: Something about the Open Road

Title: Something about the Open Road  
**Series** : Every Broken Thing (5/7)  
**Pairing** : Sam/Dean   
 

  
  
In chronological order, _Something About the Open Road_ comes right before Blurry and, we hope, ties it all back together.  


~~~

  
The legions of hell itself could not force Dean to admit that he’s been waiting for it.  
  
That he’s been lying on top of the covers, still in his jeans, when Sam wakes screaming.  
  
It isn’t the first time, it probably won’t be the last, and Dean had been awake for hours anyway, trying to rid the scent of his mother’s perfume from the back of his throat.   
  
She’d spoken to him. In that endless moment after he breathed her name.  
  
_Mom. Never Mary, always Mommy was her name..._  
  
She’d said “Dean,” aloud. Then, inside where no one else could hear; “My baby… I’m so sorry… not the life I wanted for you… the life I’ve left you… so many burdens… always taken care of Sammy without being asked... now I’m asking, Dean… please… special… so sorry… love you.”  
  
He doesn’t know what she said to Sam, inside where no one else could hear.  
  
Ghosts don’t smell like anything but ozone and grave dust so he knows it can’t be real ( _god_ , he just wanted to reach out and touch her so bad; to bury his face in her hair and pluck at the little flower in the center of her nightgown; to be four years old and safe again). He can’t really have the scent of her clinging to the back of his tongue but the sense memory lingers despite reality’s insistence.  
  
Dean’s always gone weak-kneed at the scent of Benandre. He learned the name when he was nine, scenting through a department store makeup counter like some feral little beast. Starved for the smell of her. He’d even turned down a hot little number with a tongue-ring once who smelled like it because…well. That’d just be weird.   
  
Not too much weirder though than having one ear open to every breath, every rustling noise, every indication of an unquiet mind in the other bed since they stopped as far away from Lawrence as they could get without driving off the road.  
  
Then Sam wakes screaming, calling Jessica’s name, and Dean is waiting.  


~~~

  
Jess is making pancakes in their kitchen in Palo Alto.   
  
Chocolate chip, like Dean made for him when they were kids and they got a place with a kitchenette or stayed in one apartment long enough to buy groceries. _They’re not as good as Mom’s_ , Dean would mumble and set them in front of Sam with a dollop of crunchy peanut butter on the side, just about to fall off the plate. Just how Sam liked them.  
  
Jessica’s hair is unbound and her feet are bare. She has a serene wax-doll smile on her face. Over her shoulder, hovering just above the countertop, there’s a sense of motion.  
  
Sam lunges at her over and over as she moves, oblivious, around the room. His body twists across the floor, a desperate invertebrate, as she calmly paces from the refrigerator to the table and back again. He calls her name (jess!), reaches for her (please), screams out to her (oh god, please…), but his hands slip from around her ankles. Her ears do not hear him. Her eyes do not see him.  
  
He’s crying harder than he ever has in life, breathless wracking sobs that crack his ribs apart, spill his heart out into his hands, and he’s begging her just to _see_ him. The air shudders behind her again. His tears keep him too weak and breathless to move and…  
  
“Jess. You’ve got to listen. I’ve got to save you. I saw you. I saw you, baby, pinned to the ceiling -- oh god -- bleeding. You have to listen to me, please Jess…”  
  
She is flipping pancakes onto a gilt-edged serving platter, humming aimlessly.  
  
The space just behind her flickers again and resolves into Dean, shimmering like a mirage in leather and denim. His legs kick off the edge of the countertop and his black bracelet is a tight shadow around his wrist. A shotgun dangles in a loose grip between his knees.  
  
Dean slides the mouth of the shotgun down Jess’ spine as if to get her attention and she quivers like Sam would have at the contact. Up. Down. Up. Jess shudders forward and places her palms down on the counter in front of her; her chin drops to her chest. She turns her head sideways and slowly smiles at Dean. That knowing, sexy smirk Sam’s seen a hundred girls give his brother in a hundred different ways.   
  
“Jess, _please_.”  
  
She straightens and finally acknowledges Sam, finally turns toward him at his strangled plea. Now she’s slowly unbuttoning her blouse with that same smile on her face. The smile Sam associated with long Sunday mornings in bed. Touch and laughter and sunlight and everything he’d only ever known with Dean until then.  
  
The shotgun is in Sam’s hands, without his knowledge, without his consent. He raises it, levels it right at Jessica’s midsection as she releases the final button from its slit of fabric.  
  
Sam can’t move. He can’t stop. He can’t speak. He’s screaming inside.   
  
She bends down in an impossibly graceful arc and strokes Sam’s cheek, runs one unvarnished nail down the barrel of the shotgun, but he can’t reach her hands with his own. Flames lick up behind the blackness of her eyes.  
  
Dean’s shadowy form sidles up next to her and gently slides her blouse off her shoulders without touching her skin. Inviolate. His eyes are locked on Sam’s, though, and he says without moving his mouth; “Can’t save ‘em all, my Sammy. My little killer.”  
  
Sam fires and the wound blooms crimson below Jess’ breasts in the shape of Dean’s amulet… Her mouth opens, pained and shocked…   
  
He screams.  


~~~

  
Dean is on the bed before Sam can properly sit up, one hand tight around the back of Sam’s neck and the other clutching his bicep. He chants his brother’s name softly, willing Sam to _see_ him. After a moment more of blank panic, Sam focuses blurry eyes on Dean’s face and looks surprised to see him against the darkness of a quiet motel room instead of haloed in flames. _Reflex_ \-- Dean thinks morbidly -- _Body memory_.   
  
Sam’s mind always clears more quickly than this; he says, “I’m fine, man, forget it,” by now. And Dean usually goes back to lying on his own bed, watching Sam stare at the ceiling in the dark.  
  
But this time Sam takes a long while to realize that Dean isn't pulling him away from a non-existent fire on the ceiling. Then he pants hard and practically crawls into Dean’s lap like he’d done when he was very small and very scared. Dean just holds on to him tighter.  
  
Sam gasps and clutches at Dean’s chest as though there’s fabric there to grasp, fingers curled into claws against Dean’s skin. Sam chokes out a sob, then another when Dean says, “Sammy, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay,” because it’s not okay and it’ll never be okay again and Sam _knows_ that but Dean always wishes he could make it that way with sheer force of will. Just for Sam. He’d do, god, anything to make it okay for Sam again, to make it so that it was ever okay to begin with.  
  
And instead of getting better, it just keeps getting worse (now and forever and always) because Dean knows Sam's been _choking_ on this for far too long. Choking on the grief for that beautiful little big-eyed girl he’d loved -- actually _loved_ \-- and wasn’t that the biggest fucking shock of the whole damn thing.   
  
Not that she died flush against the ceiling; not that she died in a silhouette of flame that confirmed the worst suspicions, the worst possible mental pictures, in the deepest, darkest parts of Dean’s memory. Certainly not that she’d died at all because Dean just _knew_ some shit like this was going to happen to Sammy if he really ever tried the “normal” thing. No, the most surprising thing were the tears on Sam’s face, the look in his eyes, as he slammed the trunk shut and declared that they had work to do, the fact that he really had, really did, _love_ that girl.   
  
Sam’s whole body is wracked with sobs now, emotion he’d never be able to let out in the daylight, and it’s all Dean can do just to hold on. Sam’s wild with grief and he twists and writhes in Dean’s arms like he’s dying, like he’s trying to somehow escape his own skin and the pain that lives in it. Dean feels helpless, useless for anything but this, for anything but hanging on and riding it out with Sam, taking as much of the grief onto himself as he’s able.   
  
And he's scratching down Dean’s skin like he just can't help it. Clawing at him because Dean keeps pulling him back into his chest, won't let him turn away like he knows Sam wants to. He won’t let Sam bury his face and tear at the sheets instead because Dean can do this. At least he can do _this_ for Sam.   
  
Sam draws livid lines of blood down his back with dirty fingernails and sobs into his chest, clutches and bruises and digs his nails in and chants, _Jess, Jess, Jess_. Dean is resigned and empty and cold and trying so fucking hard to be what Sam needs; he just gives his body up to Sam’s pain too. Gives him everything he has and despite it all, despite every self-loathing pep talk Dean’s given himself since this long strange trip began, still it pangs him somewhere deep inside that Sam is tearing into his flesh and calling _her_ name.  
  
Eventually -- after what seems like forever -- Sam finally starts coming down, too exhausted for more. Tears keep falling from his eyes, leaking, even as his breathing starts becoming more regular. Dean’s heart aches for him in this broken state. He wants Sam to hear, _I’m sorry she died. I’m sorry I don’t regret that it brought you back to me,_ as Dean strokes his hair and the skin of his back and breathes into his ear, "Sam. Sammy."   
  
It’s like instant electricity, that thoughtless caress; Dean feels it snap up the length of Sam’s spine. Reflex. Body memory. An endless moment of possibility -- _no finally bad idea yes wait sam please now_ \-- before Sam breathes in deep and arches up onto his knees, pressing his stomach and hips in, and exhales hotly against his ear, fluttering the short hair there and making Dean shiver.  
  
Sam presses against him, pulls Dean’s hips up close to his own with an arm around the waist. Uses all that long-limbed leverage and just rolls him with an ankle hooked behind his knee and a soft, shuddering, “Dean.” It happens slow enough to be gentle and entirely too fucking fast and Dean's brain just isn't keeping up because he’s surprised to find himself flat on his back. Sam surges up and over him then _grinds_ down and Dean’s cock is certainly paying attention because it gets rock-hard in seconds.  
  
Sam’s warmth, his scent is all around him, his tears stinging into the abraded skin of Dean’s shoulder. Then Sammy rocks his whole body in an utterly obscene, illegal-in-eighty-five-states undulation against his and Dean breaks out into a cold sweat as Sam starts to mouth his neck, behind his ear, moving toward his lips with inexorable surety.  
  
Because they haven't done this in years. Not since before Sammy left and that...well. That wasn’t anything like _this_.  
  
Dean grips Sam's shoulders as the kisses reach his jaw line and pushes him away. Hard. Across the bed so Sam lands sprawling and confused on his back; "Dean?"  
  
Dean's up and on his feet so fast his head spins. He grabs his overshirt and jacket, flannel and leather sleeves threaded in through each other, and walks straight out the door. The keys to the Impala are in his jacket pocket, thank fuck, so he grabs his spare pair of boots out of the trunk and doesn't have to hot-wire anything. His baby starts up with a growl and he settles the aching skin of his back a little bit against the upholstery.   
  
Dean starts driving. He will keep driving until he hits the nearest bar and then he will get as drunk as he ever allows himself to be because reality is just a little too fucking much at the moment. He feels numb and panicked and stupid. So goddamned stupid.  
  
Because the legions of hell itself could not force Dean to admit to anyone that he’s been waiting for it.  


~~~

  
Sam got backhanded six feet into the air by a werewolf once. When he was nine and Dean was thirteen.  
  
And he’s always defined himself in relation to Dean that way; in position, in opposition to who Dean is, what Dean does, how Dean acts. Every story, every thought from almost his entire life is begun with; “I was this and Dean was that. I did this while Dean did that. I was here and Dean was right next to me.”   
  
Sam is not nearly as good with a pool cue or a gun as Dean. He’s better with blades and a dart board. His hair is browner than Dean’s, like Dad’s (“Dean looks like mom! Dean’s all pretty like a _girl_. Ow! Ow, hey! Stop it, Dean. Daaaad!”). He’s been taller than Dean since he was sixteen and Sam’s hands are bigger (“Yeah, like Sasquatch big,” Dean snorted, “That’s just freakish.”) and Dean still takes up more space when he walks into a room than Sam’s ever thought to do.  
  
But Dean’s just walked out on him for the first time in…shit, ever really. Sam is alone and it feels just like it did to land on cold ground so hard it slammed the breath out of him.   
  
He was supposed to have been in the car (he was supposed to stay in this box of “finding dad” and “mourning Jess” and “being brothers”). He’d run at the werewolf with no weapons and got bitch-slapped halfway back across the county for his trouble because the furry bastard had been holding Dean up off the ground, smelling him, looking like it was about to rip the tender veins out in his neck for a late night snack.   
  
Dean used the distraction, of course, to its best advantage, kicking out the werewolf’s kneecap and dropping to the ground while he brought his shotgun up and around in his previously pinned hands. He filled the thing full of silver shot (fucking ‘Buffy’ was, as usual, a bunch of horse shit. A werewolf _chooses_ to kill humans) then ran to him and hovered over Sam with too-wide, panicked, green eyes, checking and re-checking for broken bones, until Sam slapped his brother’s hands away and sat up, still struggling a little for air.  
  
Sam can’t move from his position half-sprawled out on the bed, his cock hard and his shorts and t-shirt rumpled and rucked up like he’d just… Like he’d been…  
  
Dean pushed him away, said no with his whole body, and he’d never done that before.  
  
Dean must be thinking this was sick. He probably hoped Sam wouldn’t bring it up again, that it was another fucked up set of moments from their childhood that are better to repress and deny in the time-honored Winchester Way. Dean had been done with him when Sam left the family business for a college degree and a pretty girl who bought throw pillows with fringe for their couch.   
  
Dean was done with him after he’d fucked Sam through the mattress the night before he left. When he’d left bruises and bite marks so that Sam wore long pants every day in the late August California sun, wore his clothes down the dormitory hallway to the showers and didn’t cut his already overly long hair until almost October. Until the marks had all finally faded and all he could feel was the ache of their absence.  
  
Sam springs up from the bed to careen around the little table and into the bathroom. His palms slam down onto the toilet seat just as he vomits bile and sorrow out until his chest aches. He numbly brushes his teeth, carefully not looking at his tear-streaked face in the mirror, has several gulps of water from his cupped hand, shuts off the tap and neatly hangs up the towel on the rack.  
  
What the hell will happen when Dean comes back? Because Dean always comes back. Sam lies down very slowly and closes his eyes and thinks about the fact that Dean always comes back; always comes back no matter how stupid Sam had been. Dean came back to him all the way in Palo Alto, all the way on the other side of not talking at all for years.  
  
Sam closes his eyes and breathes. In. Out. In.   
  
Dean will come back. He’ll come back if only because he left Dad’s journal open on the table and he’d never trust Sam to do with it what needs to be done. He’ll be back.  


~~~

  
Dean goes so far as to hit on a long-legged brunette with these slitted honey-hazel eyes that gaze out at him from under messy bangs. Four perfectly-spaced scratches throb down the center of his stomach as he gives her the best incarnation of his grin he can manage. It works.  
  
She tells him her name is Comfort. “As in Southern Comfort”, she says with an eye-roll Dean has to respect, as she takes another drag from one of those weird, super-skinny, girly cigarettes. “My mother was a total alcoholic.”   
  
Dean thinks sarcastically, “Wow. Classy.” But that doesn’t stop him from almost taking her back to the Impala for sheer irony’s sake. He carefully decides that he’s just not in the mood (certainly not that it would be pathetic) and he excuses himself to a never-ending “bathroom break” out the back door that he usually saves for the post-blowjob portion of the evening.   
  
Dean’s just drunk enough to feel every molecule of cool oxygen that moves in and out of his lungs when he steps from the bar out into the open, nightmare-blue sky. He knows he’s off-center, off his game; that he’s meat for the beast right now and honestly he doesn’t give a shit. He just prays he doesn’t drive off the side of the road and fuck up his car as he makes his way back to the motel.  
  
He’s dangerously close to sobriety again by the time he fights with the sticky motel doorknob lock, so he sits and watches Sam’s sleeping form in the too-short bed while finishing off the quarter-full bottle of whiskey he’d brought in from the trunk. Then he stands up -- with great conviction, as though it’s preordained that he rise at exactly that moment -- and strides over to the bed.   
  
Sam looks awful. His face is pinched, frown lines deeply etched and tear-tracks salting his cheeks.  
  
Dean digs his fingernails into his palm and the pain feels good. He wishes for something to kill; longs crazily for something nasty to break down the door and attack them before he looses all sense, before he sinks down onto Sam’s mattress.   
  
Instead, the input from his own skin reverberates around inside his skull, the dirtiest kind of invitation. And there’s Sam sprawled out across the crappy, thin bedding like a filthy promise. Dean thinks, “I’m going to hell. I’m going straight to hell. Fuck.”  
  
The second time is the hardest.  
  
First time’s a mistake, a miscalculation, needful, shameful and unforgettable. Third time’s the charm, a habit, a behavior, a sin. Second time though. The second time bridges the gap.  
  
The second time has _intent_. It’s premeditated. It has a First Move.  
  
Dean makes it. Dean closes the distance and he doesn’t think once about what that means. He needs to get close to Sam. Needs to make Sam feel better, needs to make Sam _feel_.  
  
It’s a reflex. Body memory.  
  
“Sam.” He toes off his boots and kneels gently between his brother’s bare feet. Inches up the poor, scratchy excuse for a comforter. “Sammy.” He’s been hard and aching since before he left the bar.  
  
Because Dean has always been stronger than is strictly good for him but he’s just so fucking _tired_.  


~~~

  
Dean smells like cheap whiskey and the fog of bar room smoke. Sam’s eyes are open all of a sudden and he only knows it’s Dean a split-second before he remembers in a rush what’s happened.   
  
“I… Dean, what…?”  
  
Dean shrugs away his jacket and shirt, runs his hands up Sam’s thighs, fingernails rasping against wiry hair and says, “Shh, Sammy. Please. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of you.”  
  
Sam is so pathetically grateful he could cry, hates Dean for making him feel this way and he’s all turned around and fucked up but this is nothing like the last time, the time before California and Jess. Dean is sucking kisses onto the insides of Sam’s thighs and whispering secret things against his skin that he wishes he could hear. Dean’s hand slides up and rubs against his waist in a slow line while he mouths Sam’s cock through his boxers then brings his other hand to join the first at the waistband. Pulls the light cotton off Sam’s hips and down his legs to disappear somewhere in the darkness of the floor.  
  
Sam’s neck is tense and curved as he keeps trying to raise his head and look, to see Dean, to see what Dean is doing. He wants to reach for him, pull him up and touch all the skin just barely visible in the shadows created by the light trickling into the room from the parking lot.   
  
But then Dean slides his lips around Sam’s cock, sucks him into his mouth and groans around it. Sam cries out; Dean groans again in response and wraps his two left fingers around the base, squeezing Sam, guiding him, making it last. Sam hears the rasp of denim and metal and feels the exact moment Dean’s furiously searching right hand makes contact with his own dick in his shuddering hot exhale and the flick of his tongue.  
  
Sam’s neck snaps back and he rolls his head against the pillow. “Please.”  
  


~~~

  
Then Sam starts _talking_ and Jesus fucking Christ but there’s only so much a man can take.  
  
“Dean. Please. God, _fuck_. Let me touch you -- please please please, god -- ah, please Dean come here. Come on, c’mere. I want to, Christ, I want to touch you too. Please, Dean, you never let me touch you....”  
  
Dean groans and viciously squeezes the base of his cock to stop him coming right then and there, shakes off Sam’s hand in his hair and absolutely does not move up the bed.   
  
“Dean! Dean, please. Oh god, then fuck me, please Dean fuck me. I need to feel -- Please! -- I need…I need you to…”  
  
Sam gasps then and calls out, “Dean!” He sounds almost panicked, and that’s the end. That’s about all Dean can take and he comes so quickly, in hard spurts all over his fingers, moaning around Sammy’s cock and sucking hard enough to bruise.  


~~~

  
Sam looks down, mouth open and panting, and Dean pulls off with a little gasp, still working his left hand in long, hard strokes around Sam’s cock as he catches his breath. God. Dean just came all over himself blowing him and the thought makes Sam shudder from his scalp to his toes, makes his cock twitch hard in Dean’s fist.  
  
Dean looks back up at him. His eyes are shadowed and Sam can’t see the expression within and he _wants_ to but then Dean sinks down to take him in his mouth again, still grasping him at the root with his left hand and, oh God, circling his ass, pushing _inside_ with one finger at the same moment his lips close around the head.  
  
Sam sits up on one elbow and drags his gaze from Dean’s lips stretched into a perfect O, along the tense curve of his neck to the muscles working, working, under the skin of Dean’s right shoulder as he fucks two fingers now, steady and relentless, into Sam. Sam’s hips buck up at the sight and Dean shifts after him just enough that the single shaft of sickly-yellow floodlight slanting in through the part in the curtains hits, with excruciating accuracy, the exact place Sam is watching.   
  
The skin covering those rippling muscles is torn and scratched. Bleeding, bruised and broken in the shape of Sam’s grief and Sam gasps as he understands all at once what it means to be loved by a Winchester. He understands all at once that he is lover and beloved both because it’s been carved into their flesh now. It’s ripped in through the skin of them now.   


~~~

  
Sam cries out, “ _Dean_ ,” and falls back, clutching at the sheets and Dean’s hair with either hand. Sam is silky and hot and pulsing in his mouth and tastes like everything Dean’s ever called home.  
  
He releases Sam’s dick from his gripping fingers, runs his hand up Sam's body and strokes circles into the soft skin of his stomach and chest. He slides down over Sam’s sides, making him tremble. Dean knows this body, knows Sam would be ticklish there if he weren’t so close to coming.  
  
He has just his mouth on Sam’s cock now; stroking the thumb of one hand over ribs, fingers splayed against hot skin; feeling the silken fluttering of muscle around the fingers of his other hand as he thrusts in, curls upward to hit Sam’s prostate with every stroke. He presses down on Sam’s pelvis with his outstretched arm, fucking his own mouth at his own pace, finding his rhythm in Sam’s half-started thrusts.  
  
Noises fall from Sam’s mouth without form, breathy, gasping things that twist in Dean’s gut like the rush of power at the closing of an exorcism. “ _Immundissime spiritus_ … unclean spirit… _da locum_ …give way… _recedo, delinquentes_ …depart, transgressor… _recedo, seductor_ …depart, seducer.”  
  
_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_.  
  
Sam comes in a hot flood over his tongue and with a throaty moan. Dean keeps licking and sucking lightly until Sam’s twitching and pleading and pulling him up his body.  


~~~

  
Dean’s lips are red and bruised and open. Sam moves to taste them, has half-formed plans of sucking Dean’s bottom lip in between his own to soothe the swelling hurt with his tongue. Dean -- effortlessly, gently -- turns Sam’s awkward lunge into a roll that almost, but not quite, seems like what he’d meant all along. Then they are spooned on their sides, Dean’s front pressed against Sam’s sweaty back.   
  
His voice rumbles, buzzes against the back of Sam’s scalp. “Go to sleep, Sammy. It’s all right. Just go to sleep.”  
  
Sam is too fucked out, too cried out, too worn out to argue or even think and so he does. He doesn’t dream.  


~~~

  
Dean doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time. He holds Sam against him and tries not to think, tries to focus on Sam’s warmth and dreamless stillness. Tries to focus on Sam’s heartbeat, steady and strong, a soothing tattoo against his flat palm beating out _Alive. Alive. Still alive. Still here. Still safe. I’ve kept him safe._  


~~~

  
Sam wakes up early but Dean’s already in the shower. He remembers everything before he even opens his eyes, no anesthetic moment of sleepiness shields him, and he lies motionless, blinking up at the ceiling for several long moments. Sam thinks hard about the wounds on Dean’s back and shoulders now, wonders if Dean will dress before he comes out of the bathroom or parade around in a towel like there’s nothing to see.  
  
He quickly realizes he just can’t handle the idea of Dean walking out and running his mouth as usual, tossing a wet towel at his chest and bitching about breakfast and Sam getting his ass in gear, while Sam’s still drowning in the smell of them on the sheets, while he can still feel Dean’s touch branded into his skin.   
  
Sam scrambles out of bed and pulls on the closest pieces of his clothing he can find. He grabs a hat and Dean’s sunglasses, because Christ knows what he must look like and slides his wallet into his back pocket. He walks out the door and down the street to the park to calm the fuck down before trying to find some coffee at the very least.  
  
He sinks onto a bench with green peeling paint and wishes, with a sort of wild hysteria, that he smoked cigarettes so he’d have something to do with his hands.  
  
Dean hadn’t touched him since he left, since before Jess.  
  
All this time away, Sam’s been able to pretend that he doesn’t miss it, that he doesn’t need it, but in the midst of his appalling grief, he finds this crazy, unshakable, _unspeakable_ need to have Dean’s hands on him. _In_ him.  
  
Reflex. Body memory.  
  
Hard as a rock and dizzy, Sam puts his head down between his knees and breathes.  
  
He’d thought – hoped – he’d forgotten.   
  
He’d hoped things would be different now. That _he_ was different.   
  
But he's not, and it's not, and he'd run all the way to California and back and there's still...all this. Dean’s smile, Dean’s scent, Dean’s hands on him. Dean’s hands on him _all the time_ ; the way they make him break, fall completely apart and then put him back together. The simple, undeniable fact of _Dean_.   
  
Sam thought (hoped, prayed, naively assumed…) the same need wouldn’t be back to haunt him, to repeat the same fucked up drama all over again. Like mom. Like Jess. He'd loved Jessica with everything that was in him, with all his heart and soul, but in many ways he doesn't think he's ever been quite so lonely as he was without Dean.  
  
Sam lets his breath out in a long, hopeless sigh, tugs both hands through his hair and starts plotting how to seduce his brother. He’d beg if he had to. He would do anything.  
  
 


	6. Chapter 6: Rearranging the Disalign

Fandom: Supernatural  
Series: Every Broken Thing (6/7)  
Authors: [ ](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/profile)[**poisontaster**](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/) & [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[**mona1347**](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/)  
Pairing: Sam/Dean   
Rating: Adult.   
Word Count:   
Spoilers: Extremely minor spoilers for "Nightmare".  
Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of m/m incest. There is no fluff here. Angst, however, we have in plenty. Oh, and porn.  
AN: Once upon a time, this was a one-shot PWP. And then [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[**mona1347**](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/) happened to it. [ ](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) gave it (and us) love and encouragement and is a true and dear friend. [ ](http://alizarin-nyc.livejournal.com/profile)[**alizarin_nyc**](http://alizarin-nyc.livejournal.com/) makes me laugh and grin ridiculously and held my hand through my hour(s) or doubt.  
  
  
  
And now, finally, _Rearranging the Disalign._  
  
 _You want somebody for a very long time. And then you have them. And they love you. And they make love to you. But it's not enough. This is the truth about sex._  
\--"The House of Yes", by Wendy MacLeod  
  
  
  
Sam’s throat aches and not for the obvious reasons.  
  
He listens as the water in the bathroom rumbles on. The shower is part of the ritual too and Sam knows how much Dean relies on ritual. Hell, how much they both do, imposing an illusion of order over a life otherwise completely chaotic. He tries very hard not to picture Dean soaping up to scrub away all trace of Sam yet again, dry pain sinking deeper, hurting more.   
  
For his part, Sam’s cold and sticky and so are the sheets. Maybe there’s a metaphor there, but if there is, he’s too tired to parse it out. Mechanically, he gets up and strips the bed and then himself, all to a mental chorus of _Dean wants me_.   
  
It had seemed like so much to hope for.  
  
Turns out that was the simple part.  
  


***

  
  
This isn’t supposed to be happening.  
  
Not like this. It was supposed to be…like it was supposed to be. After the succubus… Dean’s hands clench on the bar of soap and crack the thin bar in half. It was supposed to be simple. It should have been simple, because it’s Sam. But on the other hand, it’s _Sam_ , and so he tries to pretend. That it isn't what it is. Because it’s Sam.  
  
Hell.  
  
This is just a spell, just that old fucking glamour twisted and changed. This is something _done_ to Sam, because of _her_ , because of Dean. Because Dean fucked up and didn't take care of Sam properly.   
  
Dean knows he fucked up. He let his need get in the way, crossed the line and now he’s got to deal with that like he’s got to deal with every other fucking thing; you take care of it, you fix the fucking problem and you keep your goddamn mouth shut.  
  
Except he’s not fixing Sam. He’s fucking Sam. And really, he’s not sure he’s not just making it worse, too weak to figure out what the right thing really is. It’s not like he can ask Dad, even if Dad was taking calls.   
  
_I want this. I want you._  
  
But it’s a lie. Sam doesn’t want him, Sam _left_ him and Dean’s the selfish bastard who dragged him back and took him to his bed.   
  


***

  
  
And he’s not sure whose head he wants to bang against the wall more, his own or Dean’s. And the more he thinks about it, the angrier he gets.   
  
Because Dean can’t ever let himself bend, just a little bit.  
  
Because Sam’s never been less than clear about what he wants from Dean, up to and including Dean himself.  
  
Because Dean _still_ doesn’t take him seriously. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t pay attention.  
  
Because this could fucking _work_ , if Dean would just let it.  
  


***

  
  
Sam’s getting better at sneaking up on him.  
  
That, or Dean’s just too fucked in the head to notice, and that’s an altogether new kind of horrifying. In any case, Dean doesn’t notice Sam’s there until the curtain slides back rustily on the rod and suddenly, Sam’s _there_ , fitting his lanky form around Dean’s and sliding his arms around Dean’s waist.  
  
The shower’s hot, hot as he can stand it and not burn, but somehow, Sam’s skin still feels warmer.  
  
 _No…_  
  
"You know…" Sam’s head rests on Dean’s shoulder, bringing the sweaty sex smell of him in over the shower’s rain and his mouth is up against Dean’s ear, voice soft and growling at the same time. "Seems to me that for a man so afraid _I’ll_ leave, you’re doing an awful lot of running yourself."  
  
 _Don’t. Just…don’t._  
  
"Sam." He puts his hands over Sam’s where they lock just below his navel and hunches his shoulder to twist away. Sam lets him get so far and then pins him to the tile. It’s _freezing_ and Dean flinches, which only puts him in closer contact with Sam. And Sam’s stupid yammering mouth is covering his, demanding, intruding, and Sam’s stupid long hair is dripping in Dean’s eyes, stinging and Dean’s _shaking_ , just shaking like he’s falling apart and he thinks, _yes, that’s it exactly._  
  
So instead, Dean tips his head back and puts on a smirk. "Damn, Sam. I had no idea you were into dick so bad—though who can blame you? Still, there are limits to even _my_ remarkable stamina…"  
  
"You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?" Sam’s fingers bite into Dean’s shoulders.  
  
" _I’m_ an idiot?" Dean scoffs, but it sounds weak even to him. He’s not ready for this, not ready to be _on_ again. It hurts, chafing over incomplete wounds. But Dean’s nothing if he can’t fight through a little pain. "Dude, you’re the one practically climbing up my back ‘cause you can’t get enough."  
  
Sam flips wet hair out of his eyes, spraying Dean. Dean doesn’t know why he bothers; it just flops back down anyway. "How long’ve I known you? You think I don’t know your bullshit when I smell it?"  
  
Dean opens his mouth to say something and Sam pushes him back again. Damn, he forgets sometimes how strong Sam is. He’s not a kid any more. "I call bullshit, Dean," Sam repeats, hands coming up to cup Dean’s face.  
  
He doesn’t expect it, the…gentleness of the gesture after the previous manhandling, any more than he expects the way Sam bends and presses his forehead to Dean’s. He wishes Sam wouldn’t do this.  
  


***

  
  
"Sam…"   
  
"I left because of you," Sam says and Dean _jerks_ , breath catching, eyes shuttering Sam out. The sneer flakes off Dean’s face like it never existed and the sun lines at the corners of his eyes clench with his jaw.   
  
_Fuck. No. No._  
  
Sam feels a little hot/cold flutter go through his groin and chest at the same time. "Not _just_ you, Dean; I had to get away. Dad… Whatever. It doesn't matter. But… I had you and I didn’t have you and I couldn’t… I couldn’t make you want me. Not enough."  
  
Sam closes his eyes and presses his forehead harder against Dean’s until the bones grate. For all Dean’s insistence that Sam talks too much, this is something he’s never said. Not to anyone, not even himself. It breaks open all those old scabs and scars, turns his fingers to ice and makes his legs feel wobbly and unreliable.  
  
Then he opens his eyes, because if he’s doing this—really doing this—it shouldn’t be blindly. "So here’s how it is. I loved… _love_ Jess. And we can’t change that and I don’t want to. It's two different things. And you’re a complete ass and totally bad with people and you don’t listen to a word I say, and…no one could possibly want you as much as I want you. Like I’ve always wanted you. So we’re not going to keep doing this," Sam tells him, fingers tightening as Dean tries to avert his face.  
  
"And here I thought ‘doing this’ was exactly what you wanted," Dean says, but it’s half hearted and not nearly as cruel.  
  
"You know what I want," Sam murmurs, gliding the tip of his nose along Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes close.  
  
Dean mutters something that Sam can’t hear, even at this close range.   
  
"What?"  
  
Another one of those full-body tremors that Dean would totally deny if Sam asked and Dean’s eyes open. His pupils are enormous, blown out and dark. " _You_ don’t know what you want," Dean says. Sam can tell they’re different words than before, but the way Dean’s voice shatters over them has the ring of something true. "You never did. That damn spell…" Dean’s hand moves—towards Sam, away—and then finally falls back to his side.   
  
Despite the heat of the water beating and beading over their skin, Sam feels a frisson of cold go through him when Dean says that, the slithering stir of half-forgotten memories and old scars of teeth. He knows Dean…  
  
Well. That’s always the question, isn’t it? For someone so single-minded and pared down in his pursuits, there are never easy, _simple_ answers with Dean, no straight lines of sight. So he’s geared himself up to fight on the _I won’t leave you_ front only to find it's suddenly a different battle and a new layer altogether.  
  
"What…?" He starts to ask. And then it comes back, the way everything about them eventually does. "Oh God," he says, and when he does, Dean’s eyes shift, half-hidden behind almost colorless lashes. Despite everything and everything at stake here, Sam feels a hot spurt of pleasure; that he’s figured it out. That he’s figured _Dean_ out. "Dean."  
  


***

  
  
"Is that what this is?" He hates how… _amused_ Sam sounds, how smug. Little brothers shouldn’t ever sound like that, especially when rubbing their wet belly and cock all over yours.  
  
"Sam—" His voice comes out stronger this time, edged in irritation, but Sam just gives him that college-boy shake of the head and the oh-so-sincere ‘you poor thing’ look.  
  
"It’s not a spell, okay? I know you think that because I thought it too, but it’s not _her_ , Dean; it’s not her, it’s just us. Just me and you."  
  
"You don’t know that." Dean’s hands clench and he looks down, though he lets Sam continue to hold him there. The point is, he can get out of this at any moment. When he wants to. If he wants to. _(When/if, when/if…)_  
  
 _"Dean."_ Sam’s hands fall to Dean’s shoulders long enough to shake him then return to cup his face again. "I _do_ know. You think I didn’t fight with this too? You think I didn’t check?"  
  
That makes Dean’s eyes dart up and get caught in the utter seriousness of Sam’s gaze. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; of _course_ Sam wants free of this…sickness. This perversion. But then Sam’s kissing him again, sloppy open-mouthed devourings that make Dean want to close his eyes and fall into Sam and it’s all fucked up and confused again.  
  
Except…no. Because if there is no spell, no lingering residue, then that makes everything all that much worse because that means _Dean’s_ responsible for this, for kinking Sam so badly and purely in the name of his own desire.  
  
He knew he’d crossed _that_ line with Sam on that night, the night that _she…_ That damned succubus. But even after wanking himself nearly raw in the shower afterwards…he’d still gotten hard for (with) Sammy; for that chubby twelve year old thrusting and rubbing in the sheets and biting his lip to keep Dad from waking. He’d still run his hands ceaselessly over that smooth sweat-damp skin—shoulders, arms, spine, _ass_ —feeling drugged and desperate with the sheer _sensation_ of it, the intensity. _Sam_. Sam hadn’t noticed, caught in the throes of his own orgasm, but Dean had come _hard_ , without even touching himself.  
  
And now…if it wasn’t _her_ , that bitch…then it had to be him, sick fucker.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Dean brings his hands up, pushes between them.  
  
Sam’s eyes are closed but his grip tightens, fingers snaking around to the nape of Dean’s neck, trying to hold. He protests, "No. I want…"  
  
Dean exerts more pressure and shoves Sam back, harder than he means to. Sam’s feet slide on the porcelain and Dean has to grab him—forearm, shoulder—to keep him from falling over the tub’s lip. Sam’s eyes spring open, shocked and startled. "What the fuck, dude?"  
  
"You keep saying that, but it’s not about what you _want_ , Sam," Dean hisses, feeling sick and turned on and headachy. "It’s not supposed to be about _want_ , it’s what you _need_. You were so young and you didn’t... I _had_ to. I couldn’t just…leave you like that, with what she did…"  
  
Sam is very still. Then, quietly: "What are you talking about?"  
  
His hand is curled around Dean's forearm, refusing to let go and he tries to come closer again. Dean keeps his arm stiff, holding Sam off. Even this small touch distracts him. "The reason I…the reason I _do_ this, the reason I can sleep at night is because you _need_ this; because that sick twisted demon bitch did something to you—to _us_ —and it's not your fault or my fault or dad's fault…but now I…this…"  
  
All these words. All these goddamn words, pouring out of him like blood.  
"It's not about _us_ , Sammy. It can't be just about us because there's fucked up and then there's that. This is something we just _do_ , something that we have to do to keep the dark magic at bay, not because of anything like _want_."  
  
"So there is want?"  
  
Dean curses under his breath and looks away.  
  
"Why can’t you just _say_ it?"  
  
And that’s just such a stupid question Dean doesn’t even know how to quantify it.  
  
"Dean." Sam is very close again, slick/smooth/wet. "This _is_ something we do to keep the dark magic at bay. But _because_ we want it, not despite it."  
  
"No," Dean says. He should have never let it get this far. He should have _never_ let it get this fucking far. "That… It’s not like that. That’s not… _you_ saying that."  
  
But he wavers and that's all it takes; Sam is against him, pushing _him_ , grinding his hips against him until he's shuddery and weak and starting to harden again.   
  
Sam _whispers_ , a thin and taut wire of sound, snugging around Dean's throat: "Oh please. That's total crap and you know it. Years, Dean. You never thought to look it up? All this time? I mean, I know how you feel about having to crack a goddamn book now and again but you never thought to…oh, I don't know… _ask_ someone?"   
  
Sam nuzzles and nips Dean’s skin, spiteful, distracting. "Go to someone? A witch or _houngan_ , to get this supposed spell lifted? And how did you rationalize that? Because it isn't dangerous, isn't something that can weaken you, take its toll on your hunting. That's just _bullshit_ , Dean, a total bullshit excuse, because you knew. You _knew_. You just want to pretend you don’t."  
  
 _No_ , Dean thinks. _Yes.  
  
I don’t know._  
  
It isn't a chronic illness, it isn't an open wound. It's a deep scar that changed the topography of their skin forever. And like the rest of his scars, it fucking _aches._   
  
"Stop." It comes out soft, rasping and Sam ignores him anyway, still whispering, murmuring, cajoling, writhing, sliding, but just forcing the words out from his throat helps. "Stop."  
  
"No." Sam licks Dean’s throat, a scalding line of wetness that becomes a scrape, a nibble, a bite. Sam chews, bites, _marks_ , as if it’s necessary. As if Dean hasn’t always been his.  
  
But it’s not enough.  
  
Dean takes a deep breath. Then he grabs and brings Sam's head up from his neck to his mouth, hot, wet and open. Sam groans against his lips, clutching, clinging, promising everything and nothing with the lies told by skin. It hurts, oh _fuck_ it hurts. Because Dean _does_ want and Sam just keeps breaking down every wall he’s put between himself and that want and even his dick lies to him with its siren song of _do it. do it, DO IT, are you fucking **gelded**?!_ and Dean _can’t_ , he just _can’t_.  
  
Sam’s hands leave Dean’s shoulders to tangle in his hair and clutch his hip respectively and Dean eases him around, nudging him towards the back of the shower. _This is Sam’s problem,_ Dean thinks viciously. _He’s too easily lulled._  
  
Dean’s so hard all his bones ache with it and Sam keeps alternately thrusting his erection against Dean’s or reaching for him. Dean deflects him with an elbow until he’s got Sam backed against the tile. "Yeah," Sam breathes. His eyes are closed and his hands are loose around Dean’s forearms. "Yeah, c’mon, Dean, c’mon…"  
  
It’s easy now; for Dean to slide away; to step out of the tub altogether, the milky curtain trailing on his skin like ghosts.  
  
Fuck this noise.  
  


***

  
  
Sam sags a little against the tile, stunned and stupid with the speed with which it all happened. One minute Dean is kissing him... He shivers, still overwhelmed by the sheer force of _feeling_ behind the pressure of Dean’s mouth; hunger and _want_ \--fucking God, so _much_ want--with just that chili pepper bite of hate behind it; a huge and climbing tsunami that tells him everything and fixes nothing and now here he is and Dean’s gone again. Running again.  
  
He just… He just…  
  
He didn’t know.  
  
 _Fuck, Dean,_ he thinks, through anger and despair and a whole lot of confusion—not to mention the insistent throb of his cock— _why do you have to make this so hard?_  
  
 _Because that’s what Dean **does** , stupid,_ he thinks, and it’s such a simple and fundamental truth that there’s nothing he can say to it.   
  
But he’ll be damned if he’ll accept it.   
  


***

  
  
He’s fucking dripping wet and hard as steel and shaking like a little bitch but fuck it, he doesn’t _care_ … Dean snatches up his discarded jeans, dimly aware that for all his frantic need to escape, he won’t get far bare-assed. He gets as far as shaking them out once—screw boxers—and getting about half a leg in, when Sam hits him low and from the side, sneaky underhanded _fucker_.  
  
He’s off balance; Dean goes sprawling and hits the edge of the nearer bed sidelong. He scrabbles to get a foot under him, tangled in denim and the rest of the clothes he just went crashing through and Sam just _digs_ and _pushes_ until he’s got Dean on the mattress under him spread-eagled and pinned.  
  
"Get the fuck off me," Dean swears, trying to kick his legs free, trying to muscle his wrists out from Sam’s iron hard grip. "Get _off_ , dammit!"  
  
"Dean!" Sam’s hair is dripping in his face again; stupid punk needs a haircut. "Goddamn it, you are going to _listen_ to me…"  
  
"What do you think I’ve _been_ doing?" Dean demands. "I heard everything you said. _You_ want this. _You_ want me. But let’s be clear here, Sam--what is it you really want, huh? Just my ass? Is that what this is about? Because you can fuck me or suck me, or I can do you and it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference! Fucking doesn’t _fix_ it!"  
  
Sam blanches and Dean’d be lying if he didn’t feel some satisfaction in that, especially when Sam won’t fucking _get off_ of him, their skins still rubbing slickly over each other in a way that has everything and nothing to do with the anger crackling between them.  
  
"You act like I can’t pick you without picking the job," Sam says roughly, his mouth taut. Finally, _finally_ he’s as pissed as Dean. "That you can’t have me because I want another life…but it’s not the same thing. I can choose you. You can choose me."  
  
Dean makes a scornful noise in his throat, ignoring the ache as Sam just confirms yet again that this is just a way station for him; a means to an end. That _Dean_ is just a means to an end.  
  
" _Fuck_. You stupid bastard!" Sam shifts for better leverage, bony knee cutting into the muscle of Dean’s thigh. And still Dean’s just hard, wanting to give in and too fucking stubborn to do so. Because Sam’s _had_ him; Sam’s had him all this time and he could give a fuck. "Do you remember what you said? About Max? That I was never going to be like him. Because I have you. But Dean…dammit! You have me too. You _have_ me."  
  
 _Wait…what?_  
  
"So I’m yours, okay? I'm yours. But that means you're mine too, Dean. I want... I _do_ want to fuck you and suck you and I want..." Sam falters, hectic crazy blush in his face like fever, but he presses on almost right away, "I want you in me, coming in me, making me come apart... But not just that. I want you. I want us. You and me until the wheels fall off." Sam bends his head and tongues/bites/sucks where Dean's shoulder meets his neck, making Dean's hip jitter and thrust up against Sam's. "Close your eyes."  
  
Dean stares at Sam. He can’t help it. He wants to ask Sam to say it again. He’s afraid to ask Sam to say it again.  
  
"Dean." Sam’s voice splinters, rough edged and thick. "Close your eyes. Please."  
  
Dean does, though not without misgivings. Sam’s fingertips brush over his eyelids, light and tickling, keep going until they scratch across stubble, cheek to neck and then away. Contact again at his collarbone, first a fingertip and then Sam’s lips. All over his body…Sam’s hands, Sam’s mouth, Sam’s _skin_ ; touching him, spreading him out, exploring, tasting. He knows he should get up, away; he feels himself softening, wanting, needing. Sam’s fingertips spell out the constellation of rock salt scars with a gentleness that belies the violence with which they went in and he’s so open he can _feel_ Sam’s apology, bleeding and soaking into him like a rising tide that floods and erodes all his barriers to useless sand. He should get up. He should go.  
  
He doesn’t move, breathing too fast and too hard. He is, he understands, waiting. As he always does. He’s just never sure for what.  
  
"Dean," Sam says and something in the note of his voice makes Dean open his eyes again. Sam’s face is right over his, the soft **V** of concentration between his brows. Sam’s thumb traces across his eyebrow, his temple and Dean fights the trembling shaking up through his bones. "I’m sorry. I…" Sam’s lips quirk. "I’m not going to fuck you and then leave, okay? I won’t. And we’ll just…we’ll figure out the rest later."  
  
He… Dean can’t think, stunned that Sam would… That Sam said… He can’t help it; something brittle and wavering in him breaks, leaving only glittering shards and—well, not _belief_ so much as the desire to believe, fragile as a soap bubble.   
  
"Okay." Dean's mouth is spitless. When he swallows, there's a click. He tries again, heart thumping harder and more erratically than when he fried it. "Okay."  
  
Sam's whole face lights and he comes down to kiss Dean again, sucking and biting and licking until Dean's not sure anymore what his objections were or should be. Sam’s hands are harder now, rougher with urgency. Dean feels it too, prickling and fierce. They’ve made their deal, fucked up and bitterly negotiated as they always are. The only thing left is the consummation and that’s always due in flesh and blood.  
  
 _We’re really going to do this,_ Dean thinks, as he cants his hips and shifts onto his right thigh so he can turn over, get his knees under him. His stomach quivers again, uneasy and excited by turns.  
  
"No." Sam pushes down against Dean’s hip, pushes him flat again. His thumb strokes the harshness away. "Not like that. Like this. Where I can see you. I want to see you." Sam lunges for the edge of the bed and rummages through Dean’s duffel before coming back with the little bottle of lube. Sam cracks it open and lets oil drip generously into his cupped palm.  
  
"You see me all the time," Dean growls. It’s supposed to come out as a wisecrack, but instead it’s only hoarse and kind of soft like half his voice abandoned him. Or maybe he’s just distracted by the tickling, teasing path of Sam’s fingers as they feather over his tense and trembling thigh and on between his legs. When Sam brushes over his anus, his hips jerk like they’re on a string and it feels like every remaining drop of blood in his body goes straight to his dick.   
  
"Not like this I don’t," Sam says before his teeth sink into Dean's shoulder. At the same time his circling finger sinks deep inside. Dean arches up, unable to breathe, to _think_ , caught between dizzying and conflicting signal waves of pleasure and pain. "Mine," Sam growls and if not for his fingers caught hard around the base of Dean's cock, he would have brought Dean off right then.  
  
"Sam--" he says, unsteady and teetering.  
  
Sam breathes against Dean’s sticky collarbone, sliding his finger deeper and harder into Dean. It hurts and it doesn’t, in a way that makes him think he wants more. "Say it again," Sam whispers, barely loud enough to be heard. "Say my name."  
  


***

  
  
_Sam, Sam, Sam…_  
  
Dean’s whispering his name over and over as Sam slips his finger—and then fingers—in and out of him; a chant, a prayer, hoarse and stripped like he’s lost control of his voice. It’s beautiful. Dean is beautiful, writhing, his eyes closed and mouth open. He’s almost unbelievably tight and Sam can read in that and in the response of Dean’s body to the invasion of touch that—whatever else Dean did in the time that separated them—he hasn’t done this. Not with anyone.  
  
That realization makes Sam close his eyes and bury his face against Dean’s searing skin, pounding in his temples and his groin until he has to repeat the Incantation of Banishment in Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Aramaic before he can be sure he’s not going to come all over himself before they get to the best part.  
  
"I’m going to fuck you," he whispers into Dean’s skin, barely able to believe it. He feels giddy and delirious and this had better _not_ be only a dream or he will seriously kill something with his brain. For once, he’s not even scared. "Dean…oh, I’m going to fuck you so hard…"  
  
"Sam?" Dean's voice breaks on a note Sam's never heard in it before and he reaches out and grabs Sam's wrist, hard enough to hurt. His pupils are blown, scared, wide black holes only held back by a sliver thin ring of green and his freckles look like ink.  
  
"Shhh..." Sam bends and puts his mouth over Dean's, soft and open, tongue moving, eyes closed, delirious, delighted that he can do this, that _they_ can. "It's okay," he murmurs as Dean arches up into him again. He puts Dean’s legs up, over his shoulders, slides his fingers out and guides his cock into their place, Dean still braceleting his wrist, if less urgently. "I know what you need."  
  
Dean gasps as Sam slides into him, stretching, filling, slow and careful. The hand not holding Sam's wrist stutters over Sam's shoulder, pectoral, before closing on his bicep. "Wait..." Dean breathes, " _fuck_ , wait..."  
  
Sam brushes his face over Dean's, less sexual than his own need for contact, as much contact as his screaming body can stand. "Don't you think we waited long enough?" he asks, slipping deeper as Dean gradually, grudgingly opens to him. He turns his wrist, slipping out of Dean's death hold and instead twines his fingers through his brother's. Dean grips hard and Sam matches the pressure. "Oh God, didn't we wait long enough?" He falls into Dean's mouth, wanting it, needing it as much as he needs the tightness of Dean enclosing him. As much as he needs Dean.  
  
Dean's hand slides from Sam's bicep into his hair; Sam turns his face a little to brush the palm with his lips, slipping out of Dean nearly all the way and then sinking slow and deep again, further this time. Dean’s breath catches and stops, his whole body bowing backwards and up into Sam. He feels Dean relaxing, glazing, really and finally letting Sam all the way in and he remembers: Dean says things with his body; always has always will.  
  
What he's telling Sam is _yes, yes, yes._


	7. Chapter 7: Coda

Fandom: Supernatural  
Series: Every Broken Thing (7/7)  
Authors: [ ](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/profile)[**poisontaster**](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/) & [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[**mona1347**](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/)  
Pairing: Sam/Dean   
Rating: Adult.   
Word Count: 457  
Spoilers: None in this chapter.  
Warnings: This series contains graphic depictions of m/m incest. There is no fluff here. Angst, however, we have in plenty. Oh, and porn.  
AN: Once upon a time, this was a one-shot PWP. And then [ ](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/profile)[**mona1347**](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/) happened to it (for which I am eternally grateful). [ ](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/)**inlovewithnight** gave it (and us) love and encouragement and is a true and dear friend and quite possibly a goddess in disguise.   
  
 

  
Dean wiggles—just a little—but Sam catches it.  
  
"So…" Sam draws the word out and Dean's hands clench tight on the wheel. "Really? You… _never?_ "  
  
Dean throws him an exasperated look, shifting uncomfortably—and carefully—on the seat again. Sam's been like a one-note bird all damn day. "No, I never! What the hell? Why are you so fixated on this?"  
  
The grin that spreads across Sam's face is wide and very pleased with itself and Sam slouches lower, throwing his arm over the seat to take up twice as much room as before. "What do you know?" he damn near purrs. "Sammy gets the ass-cherry. Well, all right."  
  
"Dude, I swear, if you don't shut the hell up about it, I _will_ shoot you."  
  
"I'm just saying…"  
  
Dean's lips twist. "Whole lotta nothing, is what you're saying," he growls and Sam holds up his hands and laughs.  
  
It startles Dean, who can't remember the last time he heard Sam sound so…relaxed. His shoulders come down from around his ears and after a moment, he laughs too.  
  


***

  
  
This is not the end.  
  
Sam knows they will argue about this. Not once, but time and again.   
  
He knows the looks Dean will give him. The one that says, _I'm ruining you_ , sad and somehow angry. Or the one that says, _I’m just waiting for you to leave_ , wary and disbelieving. Either one will need to be soothed away with his touch and his mouth and soft murmured reassurance because Sam is stubborn and because Dean will never _quite_ believe anything he wants this badly isn't suspect.  
  
Sam doesn't mind. He doesn't care.  
  
Life with Dean is always fighting; part and parcel of who and what Dean is. Dean fights with monsters and men. Dean fights with himself and he'll fight with Sam, same as ever.  
  
They still don't talk about it. Of course they don't. But the only real thing they have, as always, is each other.  
  
So when they get those looks, in small towns and seedy motels, they don't rush to point out they're only brothers. They stare back calmly and are never the first to look away. They let people assume what they want. They always did anyway.  
  
They stop renting doubles on the road. Dean will collapse on the bed's yielding surface and hold out his arm to Sam—for them to fuck or sleep or even just _lie_ together and stare at the TV for a couple hours in mindless fascination. Sam falls asleep like that and wakes up trapped and half-strangled under Dean's sprawling weight, sweated out because Dean puts out heat like a damn _furnace..._  
  
But he wouldn't trade it. He won’t give up.  
  
 _Because this is not the end._  
  


* * *

  
  
Except, really, sort of it is. The end of Every Broken Thing, anyway. *wibbles*


End file.
